Into the Country of Standing Men
By Rey Ventura
(author of Underground in Japan)
ADMU Press
Copyright 2007

Chapter 10
Leaves to Leaves

In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken: for dust thou [art], and unto dust shalt thou return.
Genesis 3:19

Earth to earth; ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Book of Common Prayer

On two occasions, he had to send an urgent remittance so Nena could post bail for one of her brothers charged with drug pushing. And when his mother-in-law had a stroke, he had to send lapads to pay for her medical bills.

1
In July 2004, to save the life of Angelo de la Cruz (literally, Angelo of the Cross), a lowly Filipino lorry driver kidnapped by Iraqi militants in Baghdad, President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, the 14th and 15th president of the Philippines, decided to withdraw the 54 Filipino soldiers dispatched as part of the Coalition Forces that invaded Iraq. She yielded to the demands of the kidnappers and saved that obscure migrant worker’s life. She was severely criticized by the international media and America. However, Filipinos applauded her. She defied President George Bush and his allies. She heeded the clamor of her people.

The unscheduled withdrawal of meager Filipino forces in Iraq and the campaign to save the life of a humble lorry driver, who incidentally was President GMA’s province-mate, unsettled deeply ingrained political beliefs and stereotypes. It took another woman president to make an unprecedented decision: to pursue Philippine interests first before American interests.

In a moment of crisis, President Arroyo showed strength, decisiveness, and wisdom.

De la Cruz came home an international media sensation and a national hero. From Baghdad to Manila, his return was meticulously planned and executed. The highest officials of the land, Angelo’s own family, and his poor neighbors in his village in Pampanga gave him the warmest welcome. He returned alive, indeed a happy man. He became a symbol of hope and love.

2
Moonlight Inn. 1988. Kawayan and I lay in his two-tatami room. That would be the size of two single beds placed side by side. With a piece of the autumn sky in view, Kawayan spoke almost spontaneously about his family.

“I always tell my wife, ‘Kung mawawalan ako ng tiwala sa  ‘yo, tiyak mananalo ako sa bandang huli (If I ever lose trust in you, for sure, I will win in the end),’” Kawayan said.

Kawayan’s remittances benefited not only his family but his wife Nena’s family as well. Nena had many brothers and sisters. Two of her brothers, in fact, were into drugs and thus often jobless. Nena’s sisters, nieces, nephews, and relatives also profited from Kawayan’s hard-earned lapads. On two occasions, he had to send an urgent remittance so Nena could post bail for one of her brothers charged with drug pushing. And when his mother-in-law had a stroke, he had to send lapads to pay for her medical bills.

He had been in Japan for two years. For two years, he and his wife had to content themselves with romancing on the phone and through letters. Kawayan was anxious that his absence would create a situation that would strain their relationship.

“She would always tell me, ‘find a Haponesa so that you can legally stay in Japan.’ I don’t know why she’s telling me that. Even before I left the country, she was giving me this advice.”

Kawayan had bought him everything he wanted: PlayStation, CD player, VHS, model cars, Lego, and watches. A large portion of his monthly remittance was allocated for William’s needs.

Nena, his wife, often wrote: “You’re handsome; it’s easy for you to get a woman.” It seemed that Kawayan and Nena shared mutual anxiety, emotional insecurity, and fear of infidelity.

“My son is now ten years old,” Kawayan said. “He has been asking us for a brother or a sister. He has been constantly reminding his mother about that. ‘Why am I alone? Why don’t have I someone to play with?’ I always tell him: we will make one when I return home. Your Mama and I will honeymoon in Baguio City. For sure, you will have your kid brother or a sister.”

His son William was a spoiled brat. Kawayan had bought him everything he wanted: PlayStation, CD player, VHS, model cars, Lego, and watches. A large portion of his monthly remittance was allocated for William’s needs. And his savings, he said, were meant for his child’s education.

“I’m now 30,” Kawayan said. “My wife is 29. She is a public school teacher. She was 18 when I married her.”

“Are you happy?”

“I did not enjoy my teenage days,” he said calmly.

In 1977 he left his hometown in Quezon province to escape from his authoritarian and philandering father. His parents were engaged in small-scale copra trading. He was the fifth of ten children.

Not long after he arrived in Manila, Kawayan met Nena. He became the star basketball player in Ermita, Manila. Nena was one of his avid cheerers. One day, Kawayan’s team won the championship in a local tournament. In the evening, in the middle of the improvised court on the road, Kawayan’s team had a victory party. They had lechon, San Miguel and Coke. Kawayan invited Nena to the party. He gave her a Coke and a plateful of crispy lechon skin. Kawayan had beer. They were neighbors and had been nodding acquaintances.

Afterwards Kawayan invited Nena for a walk. They walked along Manila Bay. The waters were calm and cargo ships were moored in the distance. Lovers held hands; others embraced. Night joggers were about and vendors were selling balut, cigarettes, and gum. Kawayan and Nena sat on the edge of the seawall.

“I held her hand,” Kawayan said, “and I put my arm around her waist. I embraced her.”

“Did she not hesitate?”

“No,” he said. “She returned my embrace and she embraced me tightly.”

The embrace led to a kiss. The kiss led to more kisses. The kisses led to a night in a motel.

Then she became pregnant.

He became an instant father. He was unprepared.

His palms were calloused, and a forefinger was permanently bent. Three years as a tachinbo in Japan had taken a big toll on his youthfulness and health.

“I wanted to be free from my severely disciplinarian father,” he said, “but fate immediately locked me into fatherhood. Nena and I had to start living together.”

Nena likewise became an instant mother. She had to stop schooling. She had been taking up Education.

Kawayan had to stop playing basketball. He had to work as a janitor for an insurance company in Makati.

3
In 1990, due to a thyroid illness, Kawayan was hospitalized for several months in Yokohama City. He lost his voice; he got tired easily; and he couldn’t have an erection. His doctor advised him to take a long rest; he was told his ailment could make him impotent.

“That really scared me,” he said.

He was forced to leave Kotobuki—a place he had learned to like, a place where he had learned to improve his skills in photography and writing, and a place where his self was tempered.

After his illness, he lost considerable weight. His voice was hoarse. His cheeks were pale, rough, and sagging. His palms were calloused, and a forefinger was permanently bent. Three years as a tachinbo in Japan had taken a big toll on his youthfulness and health.

He had been living and working in Japan for three years. Ill and with little money, he “surrendered” to the Yokohama Immigration. In a few days, he was given an exit permit.

He did not tell Nena and his son about his unscheduled return to Manila.

The sun had just set in Manila Bay when I collected him at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport. We cruised along Roxas Boulevard. It had been more than a year since I last saw him in Kotobuki.

“Sorry for bothering you,” he said.

“Walang anuman, pare (Not at all, mate),” I said.

“Bad luck had struck us,” he said of his unscheduled return. “But what can we do? This is our kapalaran (fate).”

The coconut trees from Leyte that had been replanted along the shore of Manila Bay on orders of Mrs. Imelda Marcos were now silhouetted in the evening sky of November.

“Manila has hardly changed,” he said. “It looks the same as when I left.”

We hit a traffic jam at an intersection. Fearless, danger-courting, and danger-loving cigarette and newspaper vendors still plied their trade on the road. They were like the humps that regulated the speed of motorists.

“Nena,” I said, “will be surprised to see you.”

“Definitely,” he said, “she doesn’t want me to come home yet. She said our savings are still too little. Not enough to build a house. And that we don’t have a car yet. But what can I do? The human body has its limits.”

She couldn’t recognize her husband who’d left three years ago as a fresh and attractive man. She stood up and walked to him. She stopped a meter away from him and studied his face wide-eyed.

He had nothing with him except his brown attache case, his Nikons, and a bag of duty-free items.

After a few minutes of driving, we stopped somewhere along Taft Avenue in Malate. I parked beside a rustic steel gate. The gate opened to a five-door apartment. We walked through and stopped at the third door. Kawayan did not knock. Slightly lifting the door, he pushed it open slowly.

Nena was seated at the sala. She was wearing a blue dress. She was a little fat. She turned to look at Kawayan. She looked like she had seen a stranger. She was shocked. She couldn’t recognize her husband who’d left three years ago as a fresh and attractive man. She stood up and walked to him. She stopped a meter away from him and studied his face wide-eyed.

“Bakit ka ganyan? Bakit ang payat mo? (What happened? You’re so thin.)”

She knew he had been hospitalized but Kawayan had not told her how serious his ailment had been.

“Wala ba akong kiss? Wala ba akong yakap? (Don’t I get a kiss? Don’t I get a hug?)”

“Were you really that ill? Why did you not inform me?”

“You have a visitor here,” Kawayan said as he deliberately tried to evade her inquiries. “Please give him some refreshments.”

I moved to a corner. Nena kept shaking her head in disbelief. She was mumbling something to herself.

“Where is William?” Kawayan called out. “William . . . William . . . my son, where are you?”

There was a sudden burst of hurried footsteps upstairs.

“Oh, it’s Papa!” William exclaimed from the landing of the stairs. Kawayan approached him. The father embraced the son tightly and kissed him on both cheeks. Nena, like a spectator, like a voyeur, just stood by and watched them as father and son expressed longing for each other. Nena didn’t give Kawayan a hug or a kiss. She seemed indifferent to him.

She had launched an attack on her husband’s physical appearance when she first saw him. But I suspected that there was more to this than the woeful look, the unkissable and unembraceable look of a returning migrant worker like Kawayan’s. Her indifference to him had less to do with what had befallen him while he was away; his unscheduled return was also an omen of hard days to come.

The water from the tap had dried up. Kawayan’s arrival spelled the end of remittances. His average monthly padala of $1,000 would come no more. With the warrior home, the family’s convenient lifestyle that had been built and was dependent on lapad, on the Japanese connection, got an unceremonious whack from a samurai. The glamor, status, and reputation of a family living on foreign income would soon fade. And for Nena this was dangerous: losing one’s glamor, status, and reputation in the community was like being stripped naked in public.

Sacrificing her own personal life for the sake of her son and dependents, she had to push Kawayan further away from her. However, she was going too far.

Unscheduled returns are unsettling. They have the power to disorient. The migrant worker who comes home unscheduled is not welcome; he is despised. Had Kawayan’s arrival been announced and had he come home with pink cheeks and well-outlined muscles, he would have been warmly embraced and kissed passionately.

And with William’s latest gadgets straight from Japan, their house had also become the “center” for children in the neighborhood who wanted to play Super Mario or Nintendo or to watch anime. Thus, with Kawayan’s unscheduled arrival, the new gadgets would stop coming.

I realized Nena wanted him to stay longer in Japan. She wanted him to work more. She wanted him to continue sending more lapad. She did not mind a longer period of physical separation. Nena, the only professional in her family, the only child with any bureaucratic connections (which were more powerful and useful than her meager income as a public servant), was essentially the breadwinner who bore the burden of her entire family. Her father, who had a second family apart from them, passed away many years ago and her mother was often in the hospital. Sacrificing her own personal life for the sake of her son and dependents, she had to push Kawayan further away from her. However, she was going too far. Emotionally and physically insensitive to her husband, she was sowing the seeds of estrangement.

“Not even a kiss,” Kawayan said. “Not even a hug. Not even a cup of coffee. My wife is something else.”

4
It was early morning in April 1988 when I saw Kawayan for the first time. He was standing alone at the corner by the convenience store near Higashiyama Building where I lived. His eyes were alert; his head kept turning here and there. He was obviously waiting for someone. I wanted to greet him; but I was not sure if he was a kababayan. I thought he was Japanese. His complexion seemed more Japanese or Chinese rather than kayumanggi, brown, like mine. He was tall and looked as if he was always smiling with his subtle dimples. He seemed shy and mild-mannered. By any measure, he was handsome.

After several minutes, a Filipino approached him:

“May sampa ka na ba? (Have you got a job?),” the man asked.
“Yes. I’m just waiting for Munamon to turn up,” he said. Their service van was waiting and blinking its hazard lights. Munamon arrived. Kawayan and Munamon stepped into the van. The Nissan sped away to the genba.

It was Sunday morning. I was taking some pictures on a bridge spanning Nakamura River. Kawayan and Munamon passed by. They stopped to chat.

“Do you like taking pictures?” Kawayan asked.

“Sort of,” I said.

He looked at the Olympus OM-2 slung on my shoulder.

“I have a camera, too,” he said.

He left his original name on a chess board beside his family portrait in Manila; he came to Japan with a brand-new name.

“Really!” I said excitedly. “That’s great. Let’s take pictures together next time.”

“Sure,” he said. “Drop by at my place.” He lived at the Moonlight Inn.

“Are you going to church?” Munamon asked.

“Yes.”

“Let’s walk to church together.”

“Sure.”

First, we stopped at McDonald’s for a quick breakfast of pancakes and coffee. After the meal, we climbed the steep steps toward Yamate church.

5
Kawayan’s passport name, Daniel Divinagracia, was his own creation. He created it out of necessity and convenience. He left his original name on a chess board beside his family portrait in Manila; he came to Japan with a brand-new name.

Before coming to Yokohama, he worked for an insurance company in Makati City. From being a janitor, he became a messenger who did his rounds on a motorbike. He did this job for five years, from 1982 to 1986. He was a high school graduate from the province and did not have the opportunity to climb the corporate ladder.

He had no idea of going abroad. Although he had relatives in America, it never crossed his mind to migrate and work overseas. Until one day, a neighbor who was working at a travel agency egged him on to apply for a Japanese visa.

“You can earn good money in Japan,” the neighbor said. “Your one-month salary here would be equivalent to just a few days’ pay in Japan.” The neighbor promised to assist him without extra charges. “He was so persistent,” Kawayan said. “If not for him, I don’t think I would have come to Japan.” Kawayan yielded to the persistence of his neighbor; he agreed on the condition that the travel agent would fix all the necessary papers. It didn’t take long for his recruiter to produce the essential documents, namely: a university degree in a Catholic university, a bank account with a P250,000 deposit, and a land title for a fictitious property. Kawayan paid his “fixer” the equivalent of his one-month salary—a modest service fee in those days. This agent was known in the neighborhood as “Bakla: The Recruiter for Japan.” Bakla (slang for gay) had reputedly assisted hundreds of Japan-bound Filipino men, many of whom had landed in Kotobuki.

The personnel manager at Kawayan’s company was a woman who happened to be a friend and a big fan of Kawayan. She adored him because he was ’tisoy (mestizo). Through her, Kawayan secured a company ID with a false name, a certificate of employment and a recommendation letter stating that as part of his bonus package, the company was sending him on a holiday abroad. A bloated statement of his monthly salary was also provided.

Armed with those homemade papers and documents fashioned by Manila’s best forgers, he joined the never-ending queue at the Japanese embassy in Manila. And much to his surprise, he got a tourist visa without even having to kneel before the miraculous Black Nazarene in Quiapo.

The migmig looked at him. Kawayan was tall, fair-skinned and always calm. With his Chinese and Spanish pedigrees, he looked more like a good-looking Japanese than a handsome Filipino. He looked every inch a respectable traveler.

6
Kawayan borrowed money from his relatives to buy his roundtrip ticket to Japan. He also bought a brown attache case to match his light-brown suit and brown leather shoes. He had $400 for pocket money. He thanked Bakla, his neighbor-agent-recruiter-fixer-travel adviser, and promised to give him a tip when he came home.

At Manila International Airport, “I was not asked a single word,” he proudly recalled. I could see him breezing through the Manila immigration looking more like a fashion model or a fading movie actor than a potential construction laborer.

At nine in the evening, aboard a Philippine Airlines flight, he arrived at Narita Airport. The immigration officer asked him how long he intended to stay in Japan. He said two days. The migmig looked at him. Kawayan was tall, fair-skinned and always calm. With his Chinese and Spanish pedigrees, he looked more like a good-looking Japanese than a handsome Filipino. He looked every inch a respectable traveler. When asked where he would stay the night, he mentioned the name of a hotel in Yokohama that Bakla had told him to memorize. His pocket money was also checked. Half of his greenbacks were in one-dollar bills. This amused the airport official. “Have a nice holiday,” the migmig smiled and stamped his passport.

Nihon eyõkoso (Welcome to Japan) said the greetings on the wall at the arrival area. Having no baggage to claim, he took the exit and walked toward the bus stop. He noticed the weather was warm just like in Manila. It was August, the peak of summer in Japan. He took off his suit.

“I didn’t realize,” he said, “Japan could also be hot.”

Kawayan also didn’t realize the timing of his arrival. He landed in Japan during Obon—the Bon Festival or Festival of Lanterns when many Japanese families returned to their hometowns to remember their dearly departed. During this time, village councils, in their respective districts, organized bon odori (bon dances) in public squares or parks. The Japanese remembered their dead with prayers in temples, dances, and feasts. This Buddhist festival was one of the most joyous occasions in Japanese cultural life. At the end of the festival, in the evening in some villages, hundreds of paper lanterns were lighted and sent afloat in the river as a sendoff to the spirits of the dead who had come to visit their loved ones. The lanterns were meant to guide the spirits in their return to the spirit-world.

Thus, while most of the country was rejoicing, dancing, and drinking sake, whisky and beer, Kawayan landed at Narita. It was 1987. He set foot in Japan like a migratory bird and was immediately welcomed by the host community. This was the brilliance of Bakla. He timed Kawayan’s arrival with the festival in full swing and when most streets were deserted. It was like the dorobo who descended when no one was home.

Following Bakla’s instructions, he took the airport limousine to Yokohama City. “Japan was burning with lights,” he said. “There was hardly a space that I didn’t see without some lights. It seemed there was no dark spot in Japan.”

After two hours, he arrived at the bus terminal near Yokohama Bay. He got off the bus with his attache case. He approached a taxi and showed the driver an address. The taxi’s door opened automatically. That was a surprise. He got in the cab. They drove through a series of bridges, winding highways, and well-lit tunnels. There were very few cars on the road. At exactly 12 midnight, he arrived at the heart of Kotobuki. The cab dropped him off near the Labor Center. He walked around searching for the shadow of a Filipino. He met some drunks bumming around. He approached a Japanese who did not look too drunk. He spoke in English. The only word the Japanese understood, however, was “Philippines.” The man pointed to a building by the Nakamura River. Later, Kawayan would christen this lodging house as “Ang-umuutot-na building (The-building-that-farts).”

They couldn’t believe such a smartly dressed midnight visitor was a Filipino. “Their mouths stayed open as though frozen,” he said. “It was as if they had seen a ghost in the dead of the night.”

Kawayan walked toward The-building-that-farts. The entrance was open although the reception was already closed. He entered like a dressed-to-the-nines thief in the night. He climbed the narrow flight of stairs, ducking to avoid hitting the ceiling. The building smelled of trapped air, stale food, and urine. “Every now and then,” Kawayan said, “I had to hold my breath. The place had a distinct smell.” He heard voices speaking in Tagalog. The voices led him to the third floor. A door, almost blocking the width of the hallway, was open; quietly, he walked near it.

Inside the tiny room, there were three Filipinos and two Japanese girls drinking beer. They also had various appetizers in plastic packs. The two girls were smoking. They had to keep the door open to avoid suffocation.

“Mga Pinoy ba kayo (Are you Filipinos?)” Kawayan asked in a friendly tone. The three Filipinos were stunned; they were speechless. They couldn’t believe such a smartly dressed midnight visitor was a Filipino. “Their mouths stayed open as though frozen,” he said. “It was as if they had seen a ghost in the dead of the night.”

He went on and broke the spell. “Mga utol (my brothers),” he said, endearing himself to the men, “Pinoy ako, huwag kayong matakot (Don’t be afraid, I’m a Filipino.)” A fit of laughter broke out among them. The Pinoys had thought he was a migmig agent out to arrest them in the unholiest hour of the Festival of the Dead. It turned out that one of the men drinking was the very person Bakla had advised him to look for. He introduced himself; he shook hands with the men and smiled at the girls.

Immediately, he was offered a drink. He was not a drinker but he was polite and took the beer. He squatted by the door and started to sip.

Five persons squeezed like packed mackerel in a tiny room with no air conditioning or ventilation, no exhaust for the smoke and smell of fats, soy sauce and spices; he was beginning to get worried. “From now on I have to prepare myself for this kind of life,” he told  himself.

After a drink, Kawayan’s new acquaintance ushered him to the room where he would spend the succeeding hours of his first day in Japan.

With borrowed space and borrowed shirt and pants, he lay on the old tatami mat. His thoughts returned to his family: his young son and his young wife. They were not beside him now and they would not be beside him from now on. This worried him more than the new life he was going to lead as soon as the light dawned in the country of standing men. He hid his tears from the generous man who was snoring beside him. He slept barely a wink on his first night in Kotobuki.

He woke up early and “saw” Japan for the first time. And Kotobuki—the Country of Standing Men—was the first face of Japan that greeted him.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he said. “I couldn’t believe Japan could be this dirty. There were so many drunks early in the morning, so many ragged people. I thought all of Japan was like Kotobuki. I wanted to go home then. I was never so scared in my life.”

The more stories you shared, the more seeds you sowed, the more the potential for harvest. Or, sharing a story was like sharing a memory—a sharing of treasure. It was a form of generosity.

I found it strange that whenever I spent time with a fellow Filipino, he or she would always tell a story. Perhaps it was inherent in every migrant worker, in every person away from home, to express what’s deep inside him. It seemed natural for a tachinbo to tell his story to a fellow tachinbo, or for a gastarbeiter to confide to a fellow gastarbeiter.

Telling a story is a form of communication with one’s listener but, most importantly (though indirectly), to the storyteller’s very own family or loved ones. It can provide the storyteller with a window through which to unburden the memory of home. The more he tells and the more he shares, the lighter the mental and emotional baggage. Hence, life in a foreign country can become more bearable and enjoyable.

Telling a story is one way, of course, to entertain a guest. By telling a story, Kawayan was making me feel welcome and putting me at ease. He wanted to delight me or perhaps he wanted some sympathy and reaction.

Or, sharing a story could be like sowing seeds. If the seeds fall on good soil, they grow either as stubborn and luxuriant grass or could become a fragrant wildflower that attracts butterflies. The more stories you shared, the more seeds you sowed, the more the potential for harvest. Or, sharing a story was like sharing a memory—a sharing of treasure. It was a form of generosity. Even when the storyteller was gone, his story and memory remained. A good story could be kept like a precious gem.

Kawayan and I had been lying on his futon for a while; we were filling his low-ceilinged abode with memories of home. It was Saturday evening and there was no work the following day.

7
Kawayan had a Nikon F3. Munamon had a Canon F1. I had an Olympus OM-2. The cameras opened the door to our friendship. With our cameras, together, we went on hiking trips to Chiba, Tokyo, and Tochigi. We took pictures of rice fields, wildflowers, momiji (maple leaves), shrines, and temples. On our Sunday photo sessions, we took pictures of our neighboring districts: Chinatown; the fashion district of Motomachi; the entertainment zone of Isezakicho; the flea market venue in Odori Park; and, of course, our dear Kotobuki. We took  pictures of tachinbo who were lying drunk on the pavement. We stole pictures of pretty Japanese and Filipino girls. We took pictures of ourselves having a morning wash or taking a pee or while we were napping. We stole pictures while we were in the gemba. We snapped shots while we were at play: billiards, drinking beer in pubs, browsing magazines and porno materials in bookshops, and while walking in the park.

Every time we got the prints of our pictures, at Kawayan’s room (the place we automatically gathered in, Kawayan being the eldest and our big brother), we would compare our shots and analyze them. Over bottles of Asahi and Kirin, we would praise or tease the photographer that deserved it.

Most of our wages went into photography, photography-related magazines, and books. On Sundays, most Filipino tachinbo would adorn themselves with gold, silver, and Levi’s. The Filipino kumanders (Filipino women married to Japanese), in their bid to outsmart Japanese women, would wrap themselves in long coats, boots, cashmere, and carry fake Louis Vuittons. Meanwhile, Kawayan, Munamon, and I—known as Los Kodakeros—would be guilty of our own ostentatious display of cameras.

In every activity, from Sunday gatherings to political meetings organized by the labor union, to Christmas parties, Los Kodakeros were always present. Not a few Kotobuki macho boys—those who would extort 100 yen or 500 yen for their drinks—were irritated. Some envied us because we could operate professional photo equipment. Others thought we were arrogant, going around with those cameras. We tried to learn a craft together. We documented our lives as migrant workers together. We tried to process and develop a friendship together.

© Rey Ventura

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